Butterflies
by Banana Rum
Summary: Have you glimpsed death in butterflies and profound wishes before? Nothing ever disappears. The things that do never truly ‘were’. IyxKanna


_Have you glimpsed death in butterflies and profound wishes before?_

Butterflies 

_Rating: PG_

_Genre: Horror_

_Summary: Inuyasha x Kanna Nothing ever disappears. The things that do never truly 'were'._

_Author's Notes: Beware of double meanings and metaphors. _

…

He watches. The skies split in crimson slashes. The wound crackles with flame and the sun falls from its perch in the sky into the ocean. The stars die.

And he waits.

…

There are faces looking up at him, pleading for his blessings. He has none to give. Still they pray.

And so, still they will die.

Their life-scent lingers on him as he departs. He only washes it off in stagnant waters; whispers of the smell cling to his mind and torment his thoughts.

He tries not to think. He makes his mind sleep. But he can't decide what he dreams, and the children and their parents come to him once more.

They bow in reverence. He shakes his head in denial and disgust. They owe prayers to no one.

Especially not him.

So he runs.

And they follow.

Blindly charging forward, they rely on him. So many innocents condemned by their faith.

For that they will not lose him.

They will not let him escape.

The world shifts sideways.

A happier era.

He thinks so, anyhow. He thinks so.

His memories play tricks and deceive him.

But there she is.

Pearly and perfect and his alone.

She lives for him.

And she dies because of him.

'Lo the land beyond the breach of moonlight. Castles of ice and mirrors painted upon the tapestries her ever-watchful eyes reflect.

She submits to him. And he to her. In a few scant instants they are upon each other. She touches him lovingly, takes the hurt and uncertainty away.

Sliding forever into forbidden ground. And, of course, there is a price for that slip.

So, with unbidden distrust, they poison each other; in the least romantic of ways.

For there never was a 'they'. Always a 'he' and possibly a 'she', but never a 'they'.

The canvas is wiped clean again.

You cannot capture spirits in a mirror that is only frescoed upon a wall.

And the dreams of 'she' persist. She walks the same path all the others follow.

She was a lady; she could have stolen the light from the sun if she wanted to.

Yet she gave all away to become another memory.

And deep inside, he _knows_ it is all his fault.

The poisons injected into his mind still haunts him.

It fills his limbs and flares in his brain.

But he does not falter.

He has blinded himself to his body as well.

It should no longer exist, torn away by myriad ages of toil. But it follows on, to torment him.

Racking, ravished sobs float through his lips and disappear.

There is no one left to hear them.

Sound died long ago.

Millennia can pass before him in a second.

So he thinks.

And he remembers one thing. There _may_ be something worth keeping and holding on to tightly.

He thinks harder, about that one thing. But the more he does, the more unlikely its existence becomes. Until he decides it was never _there._

But—

Now he is the one to persist.

Just like the horde of victims, beloveds, enemies that veil his future in a mist of dilute brushstrokes.

It _must _be there.

If it never was, he would not here.

And of course, he is here. Of course.

He makes sure. Just in case.

No, he is still in his world. Rampant remembrances rack his soul as he tries to see the whole silkscreen before him. The fabric is painted with a substance he _does_ remember. Oh, he remembers. Very much.

And as the ink spreads across the artwork as he knocks into the palette of colors, it looks so…very…natural.

He wonders whether maybe, _maybe _it was not an accident he has marred such purity by spilling that scarlet-ribbon paint..

The blood shed on the soil of a battlefield is never a mistake. It is ever-so-forcefully meant to spill.

And the red stain he has created looks enticingly alike.

'Identical', even.

Bird shells crack when the child within is ready to see the truth life holds in store for them.

He is the same, he decides.

It has become this way, so he could see the truth. And the truth is always beautiful. Always the Right Way.

He wishes it to be so.

Yet…wishes. Don't. Come. True.

Some snickered as he passed in earlier years; they said the paths he took were only a 'feudal fairytale'. But his wishes never came true. It was no fairy story.

Only in fairytales, the hero triumphs over the villain. Despite a common belief among the lesser villagers, life was fair. If no wishes were ever granted, all would be equal, and the only inequality would be the difference in one's character. For there are heroes on both sides of a rift.

His 'villain', he claims, loved the dead. It was sick, immoral. Wrong.

But he too, loved the dead. He still does.

Because there are now a good many dead he wished were still breathing.

Maybe, _perhaps_, it would not have hurt to frolic among laughter and reap the rewards of one woman's smile; the ability to wipe away one child's tears. He wished he had.

If he paid more attention, if he fell to the point of maybe _listening _to them, he decides he could have joined them. Instead of being as damned alive as he is.

As alive as someone can be without heart. Without soul. Without face.

Legions of his worshippers lumber toward him. Apathy sets in. He did not leave his nest to be hunted.

But does anyone?

The wood thrush sings away the days until whatever 'death' has been personified as in wood thrush mythology creeps into his shell husk and is no more.

So, being hunted is the wood thrush and his only similarity.

He cannot sing, or would not. And now that Sound has gone away, he never will, because he knows she's not coming back.

_It was like a part of you had gone away. Stay with me, just a little longer._

A woman's wishes. The only thing she ever asked of him. Ever.

Locked in the pages of the books of lore and secrets, a tenant sleeps.

When awakened, she yawns and flips idly through the other pages. When her and his page touch and form a distorted harmony, he reaches out to her.

That memory that was suppressed, that he thought was there and then agreed it wasn't? Apparently, it was.

They kiss.

But wait. It was mentioned there is no 'they'. Not then, but perhaps now, he foolishly thinks.

It is a new awakening. A revival. A renaissance. A moment of joy.

And like all flickers and weak reconstructions, they fade away.

'They' is only an evanescent memory.

'She' was forgotten.

He thinks. And regrets it. Because then he realizes she was never truly there. She never was, and never _ever_ will be.

Back into a hall of mirrors he ventures.

His beggars multiply, their expectations reflected on each face of every man, every woman, every child he has ever laid eyes on. Even each demon he has ever leered at, each baby that has ever wailed in fright when he came near.

Every one reflected a thousand-fold.

And he collapses. No more, he curses.

Every bridge will crumble.

Every fortress will one day fail its master.

It has always been only a matter of time until this one followed.

When he lost his façade, he _changed_. Funny how the things he assumed he would always have he never had at all. Ironic even.

Most ironic is the fact that all real things can only be glimpsed in death, between two panes of glass that call themselves an invisible mirror. All wishes are consumed by that vortex. Even those of my master; that construct of flesh and shadows that gave me what he thought was nothing but a reflection of self-worth.

My vortex, my mirror.

I know all his dreams and wistful, hopeful lies. The truth, he sought, and lies he found. A pity.

Deeper pity dug when he realized my creator, his villain, was his soul mate; his only calming sanctuary. And more disturbing still for both parties when they found I was not a flightless butterfly; my transient, iridescent wings too feeble to carry me on the wind of my sister's beck and call.

No, it is they who are the butterflies.

My memory holds all memories preceding even the Beginning. All dreams.

I rather like the dreams of others.

They make me smile sometimes, if the mood is right. They make me smile ever. So. Contentedly.

I still laugh when the butterflies in my death net, my reflection, confuse 'him'.

He never was. Because no one. Ever. 'Was.'

My displaced, flittering irony; the only one that ever 'was' is the only one they all assumed 'wasn't.'

fin

_Have you glimpsed death in butterflies and profound wishes before?_

Maybe you weren't looking through the mirrors you thought you were.


End file.
